


Hallowed Be Thy Name

by marquise_angelica



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Demons, F/M, Fix-It, Gijinka, Non-Chronological, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Temporary Character Death, Yamato is Nero's mother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29654694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquise_angelica/pseuds/marquise_angelica
Summary: For a child, she was his mother instead. In adolescence - an older friend, like a sister. And now...
Relationships: Vergil/Yamato (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Hallowed Be Thy Name

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Да святится имя твое](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/765420) by Маркиза Анжелика. 



> I'm not sorry for that haha)  
> I gift that to https://twitter.com/vendixnosferatu and their gorgeous gijinka!Yamato.
> 
> A title is a line from a main catholic pray.

Clouds float directly overhead. Long clumps of gray mist are overflowing with moisture settling on the skin and hair. The thin air with each breath gives the tongue the taste of a thunderstorm. Vergil notices everything with the edge of his consciousness, unconsciously, simply because he cannot do otherwise: he is waiting. He is ready to fight Dante at any moment.

But he, more than ever in his life, is drawn to close his eyes - and the lack of oxygen or boredom has nothing to do with it.

His hands rest on the hilt of Yamato. Her hands rest on his shoulders, semi-real, thin, but strong, squeezing his shoulders through the fabric of his battered coat. Her breath, not the wind, moves the hair on the top of his head. He sits on the interweaving of the roots of the Qliphoth, which have grown according to his will, and she presses against him with her whole body from the back - so closely that he feels the living striped armor of her chest. She is silent in his hands, but mutters in his head, splashes colours and images into his consciousness, drawing steel-blue sketches of memories. She holds him as tightly as he does, no longer going to let go.

Once, when he was still a child, who looked at the flames roaring in the windows of the mansion, he held in his hands only his father's sword.

Once, when he was left all alone, he imagined a friend.

Of course, a little later it became clear that in fact his only friend was his sword, still too long for him, and the faceless image in his head became her. Yamato exuded a calm breath of power. Yamato was much taller than him: he waited so much for the sword to become comfortable, as by hand, as by height, that in the end he believed that she would always be bigger. Yamato looked human. She had arms and legs, a warm chest and back, protected by strips of steel from any attacks of demons, so that no one would ever pierce her through like him. She walked on her hooves, leaving almost invisible footprints, and would be able to escape from any demons from which he didn't have time to escape himself. Her wings would carry her away from any enemy that was too fast. But she wasn't a real human friend... and that wasn't what he needed. Yamato understood him, sang to him, protected him, and that was enough.

She protected him, snuggled up to him while he slept (he allowed himself so rarely), she was what he imagined, but he had never seen her like this before: she was always behind. And at the same time she was just a sword in his hands.

As he got older, his power grew. And one day a seven-foot figure on slender legs came to him from the darkness of an alley in Fortuna. She hugged him frozen in a daze, and then raised him to the height of her eyes. Carefully, as he himself held the saya. Dark traces shone on her face, as on a blade were from special hardening. Her eyes twinkled like the moon at the tip of a point.

Much of the past has long since passed away. But Vergil is sure of at least one thing: no mortal woman in the whole world, not that in Fortuna, could have charmed him. Because he was already fascinated.

But then, of course, he got angry. He thought he knew no other feelings.

_"Put me back."_

She put him down, and when he touched her cheek with his palm, his own blue spark of stubbornness and indomitability gazed at him from the depths of her pupils. Like a reflection. Like a piece that broke away from his soul and fell into someone else's.

But at her core, Yamato is different: infinitely obedient to him. And he saw this, too: a bluish blackness, carefully enveloping the spark inside itself so that it continued to burn.

He caught his breath. She!.. She! Vergil tensed so that he almost fainted - but still allowed himself to loosen control for a while. He stepped uncertainly towards the shadowy image and hugged it. The Yamato sword disappeared from his hand altogether, and the silhouette beneath his palms acquired the reliable firmness of flesh. Ribbed stripes on the back and the chest, strong arms with claws, thin bony legs. And she's real. And she was always with him.

For a child, she was his mother instead. In adolescence - an older friend, like a sister. And now...

Vergil remembers what happened that night.

He felt himself - a part of his soul - within the Yamato so clearly, as if they had always been one. He felt a spark. It reached for him to return. Yamato didn't let it go, instead dropping crumbs into Vergil, the grains of her metal-ice rest. Vergil didn't notice that: the flame of youth burned too hot in him. Too much he grabbed his fingers into her striped steep sides (so similar to the butt of a sword!), listening to stifled voiceless sighs, as if trying to make the two of them one.

He felt what was happening. He felt that they were literally fully aware of each other.

He was such... such a boy. If only he knew it would kill both of them.

Yamato was damaged by herself. She allowed Vergil to penetrate deeply into her being, to weave like a thorny stubborn vine, to draw energy from her core, giving his own in return - and therefore, and only because of that, Yamato was broken a little before Vergil was finally defeated. It was then, against Mundus. He remembered the flash, the last surge of power that ripped open space.

And then she fell in pieces on his hands, and it hurt.

The ensuing torture of Mundus was worse, but only slightly. Most importantly, Mundus didn't obtain her. The remnants, fragments of the blade, inherited by the mad demon, only scratched the veil. And Vergil in chains, constantly being with his captor, learned a lot about his weapon. He was stupid. He used it so superficially, so ineptly!

And she didn't tell him. But she could!..

He would be angry. But now Yamato is resting on his palm (and after his back), unharmed, and the anger caused by the memory melts away. It of course cannot persist for a long time: it doesn't have old, strong roots. With the death of his familiars, Vergil also lost the feelings that had tormented him since the days when he was Nelo Angelo. Only knowledge about the past remained - and, uncolored, it feels distant and alien.

Instead of that, melancholy rushes inexorably.

Yamato suffered no less than he did. She lasted only slightly less broken than Vergil was in the Underworld. But that also was too long. The languid, empty years passed by her since the day of their farewell. Yamato remembered being split in the battle with Mundus. Most of her pieces were thrown through the gap near Fortuna. There they soon picked up both her and... the baby.

A baby?

Yamato remembered him too. The child was holding one of the shards in his hands and began to cry only when it was taken away. They were carried away in different directions - and only then did she cease to be aware of what was happening around. She became deaf and blind, sleepy and exhausted. She expected nothing, wanted nothing. The master died, she died. Everything is over.

The call of her own power: a shard turned into a fire, kindled by a human heart, - brought her to her senses just a few years ago.

Nero.

The baby returned for her almost adult. A shard of her all-cutting steel, distorted, altered by a spark of humanity, grew into a youth with the face and desire of his father. Vergil saw his struggle as clearly as if he was nearby. His soul: an energetic phantom behind him, pulled free by the power of the reborn Yamato. His intentions: to seek strength to protect the few close ones. His miscalculations and losses are due to inexperience. His... well-deserved victory - though not without Yamato's help.

No, Nero had no idea that the sword he carries in his hand once gave him life. And Vergil didn't understand anything when he first saw the boy. All that worried him then was the irresistible call of Yamato's soul in his temples.

Yamato smiles softly at Vergil's thoughts and presses her cheek against the top of his head. Yes, that's right. A lot is now becoming clear.

Father... Sparda, even being a demon, managed to plant a seed of new life in a human woman. Vergil, it turns out, did no less. And even more. Even in his childhood and youth, their souls with Yamato incessantly touched and mingled. It was easier to understand each other that way. Then they even merged and exchanged parts - then, in Fortuna. And it all ended when Yamato, trying to save herself and her integrity, pushed away from herself that human part that had melted into her through the efforts of Vergil.

Vergil chuckles. How similar they are. He cut off from himself everything that seemed superfluous to him - and made a man with a retinue of faithful familiars who managed to deceive fate and return to himself. His Yamato tried to do the same - and what separated from her went through a strange but independent transformation and became Nero.

Amazing coincidences.

Nero is no longer a Yamato's shard. Nero has become so... _human_. But even with one hand, he managed to go all the way (and lead V with him). He is clearly far less human - and far more _powerful_ \- than he can ever imagine.

Maybe one day they will meet again, and Vergil will study him better. Yamato has studied him, it's his turn. But for now, they have Dante ahead.

And then - a revenge. For both of them. For all of them.

The footsteps break the harmony of the singing wind and the sound of breathing overhead. This is Dante. It doesn't matter what he says: all the same now they will clash in battle...

“Give me the Yamato,” Vergil hears, followed by silence.

He exhales evenly. A particle of Yamato's soul in him now running the show: calculating, sharp. No fire. Calm cold.

Never.

Never again would he allow them to be separated otherwise than after his death. Yamato will leave his hands no differently than all wet from his blood, than shaded by the fragments of his soul, destroyed this time - forever.

Perhaps Dante can do it.

But give up? To him?

Never.

The palms disappear from the shoulders, and the hilt of the sword warms up and dries up completely. So that even among the clouds it is comfortable and good to keep it.

Vergil rises and turns to Dante:

“If you want it, then you'll have to take it. But you already knew that".

Yamato echoes in his head with a tough breath of approval. Somewhere inside, she reaches out for him, for a piece of her own soul in him, ready to merge with her completely again. And when he allows this to happen, a sapphire explosion of power turns the two of them into a single being.

Finally. And if it suddenly happens that they lose, a fatal blow will destroy both at once.

But no one can defeat both of them at once.

Never.


End file.
